Touch and Go
by nancystagerat
Summary: Suggestive Tiva one-shots, the first involving live weapons & willing partners in an impromptu booty-call, the second a baseball game & one very cold water bottle, the third a private reading of a very specific book, & the rest you'll have to read on for!
1. Revolver

**A/N: I'm rating this M just to be safe, because though I don't intend for any future chapters to venture into graphic territory, I'd rather not accidentally offend anyone's eyes. That being said, I know Ziva's gun isn't a revolver, but this chapter was inspired by Madonna's song "Revolver", and thus warranted this title. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! **

**Last I checked, I still owned nothing.**

* * *

_My love's a revolver_  
_ My sex is a killer_  
_ Do you wanna die happy?_

_ -Madonna_

Tony's thankful for the headphones she's wearing, blasting full-force and blocking the sound of his clunky approach from her ears. And the sound of the lock clicking into place behind him, after he gives the room another quick once-over. The noise from rounds she shoots rapid-fire into the plywood targets don't exactly hurt, either, and his ears are buzzing with them in the few seconds it's been since he shut the door behind him. The place is delightfully empty, save for Ziva, and the counter that separates the markswoman from her targets gives him ideas that definitely aren't for airing in polite company. But the second he slides his arms beneath hers the shot ricochets off the wall and she snaps one fist up so close to his face he almost doesn't catch it, and all of a sudden ambushing her at the firing range doesn't seem like the brilliant idea it'd been when he'd imagined it at lunch. Her reflexes are sharper than he'd anticipated (_Jesus, had she been that fast yesterday?_) and her sig is still live and his impromptu booty call goes from _dumb move_ to _extremely stupid, stupid, STUPID idea, Tony! _faster than it took her to almost punch his nose inside-out.

"You are flirting with disaster, DiNozzo," she hisses through her teeth. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

But he's got one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other hand threading his fingers through her loosening fist, and he figures that as long as he's taking his life in his hands, he might as well do it up right.

"Easy, Zee-vah." "How many holes're you going to punch through me for ruining that shot?" he asks, his voice a husky rumble in her ear. Tony guides the hand he's captured back in front of her, wraps her fingers back around the grip. _His_ fingers tug the headphones from her ears and return to splay over her stomach. Her muscles shift and stiffen like the rest of her, taut and pressed flush against him.

"That depends," she growls, "on how large you'd like those holes to be."

He glances once more around the room, for good measure, and slides one finger over hers on the trigger.

"Then by all means, don't let me distract you." Tony smiles, lining up the shot for her. Ziva allows it for the moment; she adjusts against him, holds herself up a little straighter, and Tony is suddenly painfully aware of her ass as she shifts in his arms. Her curves fit against his hips as if she'd been poured into him. "Nice form." He breathes in the sweet spot at the back of her neck and fires.

The recoil ripples through her into him and he absorbs it, the shockwave pressing her just right against the tightening in his jeans and he judges by the way she straightens her spine again that she knows exactly what he's playing at by now. Her friction against him is having exactly the effect he'd anticipated. She smiles, and he knows she's feeling those effects, too.

"Right shoulder. Not bad," she says, completely composed, but her eyes narrow and she shifts again to line up the next shot.

_Maybe this wasn't such an awful idea after all._

"Let's try again," he says, "You could do with a little more…_guidance_, Probie."

His finger tightens just the slightest over hers on the trigger. The hand splayed on her stomach slides downward.

"You are playing with pliers." Her voice is low, restrained, and he knows it's only a matter of inches before he reaches the spot that'll turn that steely control of hers breathless.

Tony grins, tasting the skin just below her earlobe. "David, I believe the term is playing with _fire—"_

She lets the recoil push her back and augments the force with some of her own, grinding against him just a little, but enough for his thoughts to transfer from his head to his—_ahem_—_other_ head.

"Ha."

"Right pectoral," he says, "Better."

"Is it?" she asks, shifting again. He hears rather than sees her smirk.

_Mmmm_.

"Yep." Tony releases his grip on her sig and slides his hand up her arm, brushing along the inside. The skin on the back of her neck prickles. "Time for something a bit more challenging."

He's careful with his next move, the thought of her switching out the ballistics dummy for a live target still very much present at the back of his mind. But so far Ziva has been more than responsive, and his mind isn't thinking quite so loudly after that last shot anyway. He dips his fingertips beneath the low-slung waist of her pants, asking permission. His other hand slips beneath her shirt and glides over her stomach, bypassing the toned waves of muscle to work under the wire of her bra.

She leans her whole body into him now, shoulder blades jutting into his chest as the rest of her melts back against him. "Careful, Tony," she warns, a breathy rasp creeping around the edges of the words, "Or I may not be able to control where these bullets end up."

"Ooh, dangerous." He grins against her neck, testing her flesh with his teeth and then soothing the marks with his tongue. "I might like dangerous."

"That depends," Ziva leans her head back to allow him greater access to her pulse point, and shivers when he kisses it just right. "I suppose you'll die happy?"

"Eyes on the target, David." Tony brings one hand up to straighten her arms again, keeping the live weapon leveled straight ahead of them. The other makes short work of the buttons on her slacks, and dips lower until he feels the satin edge of her panties. His fingers slide south. "Better to go out satisfied than frustrated."


	2. Pastime

**A/N: In honor of the All-Star Game a couple of nights ago, this chapter happened. (_Yeah National League!_) Enjoy!**

* * *

_Anyone can understand the way I feel;_

_Put me in, Coach, I'm ready to play.  
_

_- John Fogerty_

It's hot as Hades out today. Not something Ziva usually takes issue with, having been raised in a desert, but for some reason it's got her a little more…what' the phrase?...shot-and-bothered than usual. She suspects it has something to do with the man who's wrapped his arm around her back and is shouting things she doesn't quite understand in the general direction of the field. And all because yesterday in the bullpen she'd asked him what, exactly, was so great about baseball.

"It's only _America's Pastime_, Dah-veed!" Tony had said, a look of extreme disapproval crossing his face. "And you call yourself a citizen. You lost that note card in the couch before the test, didn't you?"

Apparently what he'd meant was she'd need to be educated about this "pastime" of her adoptive nation's, and that this education would be happening at the ball field down the street from her apartment. At a game one of Tony's friends was playing shortstop in. On the hottest day on record in the last six years.

"Come _on_, Eddie, what the hell was that? You had a perfect six-four-three there! _Come on_!" Tony yells, one hand cupped around his mouth to amplify his heckling, the other lodged into the back pocket of Ziva's bermuda shorts. He's grinning, too, though whether from the joy of the game or because he's been feeling up her ass for twenty minutes with neither protest nor slap to the head, remains to be seen. Ziva knows which of those options has had _her_ smiling, and it's not the explanation of position numbers Tony has since launched into.

And as much as she hates to admit it, and will never say so to his face, it's…attractive, watching Tony immersed in something he enjoys.

The heat eventually gets to him. Enough that when he hears the chimes of an ice-cream truck advancing down the block, he pulls his hand from her pocket and musters his best angelic face. She could do with some water herself, and rather than be a hypocrite, an exaggerated roll of the eyes is all that meets his plea for "that Oreo ice cream thing" advertised on the side of the vehicle. A few moments later, seriously contemplating shooting out the speakers on the damn truck, Ziva moseys back to the bleachers and plunks Tony's ice cream into his waiting hands. She takes a welcome swig of her Aquafina and contemplates for a moment pouring some down Tony's back.

Ziva decides against it. For now she settles for watching him gracelessly wolf down his ice cream off the little wooden spoon. She has a better idea.

She's aware that coming between a man and his sports is generally an imprudent decision, especially when his friends are involved. But, she will make an exception this time. After all, most women trying to wedge themselves between a man and his sports have not been trained by Mossad.

First all she does is hold the icy bottle to her forehead, enjoying the cool shock it sends through her. Tony gets up to chuck his empty ice cream in the trash, and she leans back against the bench behind her, gathering her hair up in her fist and transferring the bottle to the back of her neck. Her eyes are closed when he makes it back to the bleachers, and through her eyelashes she notes how his gaze lingers on her. She shivers involuntarily as a bead of condensation drips from her nape down over her spine.

"Cool enough for ya?" he asks, and settles back into his seat. His arm snakes back around her waist, and his wandering hand sneaks under the hem of her tank top rather than back into the pocket he'd abandoned. His thumb strokes the dimples just above her ass.

"Hmm," Ziva slides her sunglasses down over her eyes, feeling another few drops of water slip down her back. "Not quite." Tony's eyes fix on the ball field, but she can feel by his touch that his attentions are very clearly divided. He slides his hand farther up under her shirt, smoothes it over the trails of water running through the valley of her spine. A smirk twists her lips. She rests one hand on his thigh, and with the other she moves the sweating bottle from her nape to the curve of her neck.

Tony wrenches his focus from the field just in time to see a bead of cold condensation glide over the ridge of her collarbone. From behind her sunglasses, Ziva watches his eyes follow it down as it slides between her breasts and disappears under the neck of her tank. Other droplets trace the same course, a chill lances up her spine, and makes the points of her nipples stand beneath the fabric. She drums her fingers gently against the inside of his thigh, and tries not to smile at the way Tony's pupils dilate at the sight.

He makes a big show of flipping his cell phone open and shut and damn near bolts up from the bench.

"Hey! Hey, Eddie!" Tony flags down his friend in the dugout, trotting down from the bleachers and starting towards the park gate with Ziva at his heels. "Gotta run, case opened up. And quit swinging at the first pitch, dipshit! Make 'em work for the out!"

From there they can't get past the back fence fast enough, the couple of blocks back to her apartment an infuriatingly long distance when there are other things clearly dominating their minds. She's tempted to pull him in for a kiss but thinks better of it, reveling in the tease a little longer. Good things come to those who wait. And in this case, those who _bait_.

The elevator in Ziva's building is out-of-order, but it doesn't seem to bother Tony as much as she'd thought it would. Her neighbors are safely shut away in their air-conditioned apartments, and the windowless stairwell that lets out closest to her flat is deserted, as usual.

And he sees no reason to wait any longer.

As soon as they make it to the second landing Tony pushes her up against the wall, one forearm braced beside her face, and dips his head to the curve of her shoulder. He leaves a filigree trail of searing kisses over Ziva's neck and collarbone, pausing to nip and suck at her pulse. His mouth follows the same paths he'd watched those droplets of water travel earlier, and when he hits the neck of her tank top he reaches behind her and fumbles for a second; her bra clasps shut at the front. Once he realizes this he makes short work of them and pushes her top up, runs his tongue in a hot, wet ribbon between her breasts that makes her shudder even despite the suffocating heat. The tip of his tongue skims the underside, his fingers brush her nipples and Ziva weaves her fingers into his hair, holding him there. She feels Tony smile against her skin.


	3. Sequel

_Give me smut and nothing but! _

_A dirty novel I can't shut!_

_- Tom Lehrer_

* * *

When Tony steps out of her pristine shower, now slightly less pristine after having washed the grime left on him from the gym down her drain, Ziva isn't where he'd left her on the couch. The TV is still on what he thinks is the home and garden channel, but he really can't be arsed to investigate further. Instead he gives her living room the once-over and wanders into the kitchen only to be met by a continued distinct lack of Ziva. Which feels odd. Especially since she'd made painfully clear to him what she'd been in the mood for _before_ she insisted he take care of his hygiene first.

Well, this isn't going quite as he'd planned. In his ideal world, she'd be waiting, preferably naked, on the couch, and pull the towel from his waist herself. Which would then lead to the other highly appealing images he'd built up in his head.

Then it dawns on him that the only other place Ziva could be is her bedroom, and this leads Tony's brain by the collar away from the up-against-the-wall sex he'd anticipated towards something much more drawn-out. But equally hot. He's in no way objecting, either, but when he pushes her door open the sight he finds brings every fantasy that's materialized since his shower crashing down through her floorboards.

And not in a good way.

Ziva is curled up in the middle of the bed, an old NCIS sweatshirt pulled over her pajama shorts, and _reading_. He's lost out to a book.

"What'cha reading?" he asks, still clutching the towel around his waist, and fumbling around her room for his boxers.

"None of your business." She holds the open book flat to the bed, hiding the cover, and turns the page. He's slightly put out that since he'd walked in she hasn't even glanced at him, not even when he dropped the towel in favor of his shorts.

Luckily—or unluckily—for Tony, Ziva fails to notice that the title of the book graces the top of every other page.

"_Deep Six: Black Op_?" Tony is bordering on disgusted. Not only has he lost out to a book, he's lost out to _McCock Block's_ book. And a _sequel_, no less. "I can't believe you're reading that crap. I'd have expected a trashy romance novel before imagining you putting royalties in McWork-of-Fiction's pocket."

"Oh, shut up," Ziva scoffs, looking up at him for the first time since he'd left the shower. She gives him the elevator eyes, but even that's not enough to soothe the burn of being jilted for Thom E. Gemcity's latest yarn. She's holding her page with a finger. "It is not nearly as awful as you think."

"Oh, really. And what makes you think I'd ever want to delve into the lives of Agents Tommy and Lisa when I've most likely experienced every case firsthand? And less badly written?" Tony leans against the wall and folds his arms, trying his utmost to ignore how her eyes linger in the general region of his boxers. "Besides," he swallows, hoping Ziva wouldn't notice, "why would I, of all people, _ever_ give McStoryteller the satisfaction?"

Ziva pushes herself to her knees, still holding her page, ands beckons him to sit down beside her. A knowing, slightly disconcerting smile curves up one side of her mouth.

"Oh, I do not think you will be disappointed by this one, Tony." She hands him the book and presses a brief kiss to his lips, pushing him back into the pillows with one hand on his chest. "Read."

Tony raises his eyebrows. "Out _loud_?"

"Mmm-hmm," she purrs. He feels her tongue trace a hot ribbon up from the hinge of his jaw and swirl around the shell of his ear, and what Ziva's doing with her lips feels far too good right now to deny her anything. Tony sucks back his pride and starts at the top of the page.

"_Tommy woke to the feel of her breath in his ear_," Tony reads, feeling more than a little silly, "_her teeth gently grazing his earlobe as she drew it into her mouth._"

"Keep going," Ziva murmurs. She takes the edge of his ear between her teeth.

Tony clears his throat. _"'You have a concussion,' Lisa whispered from beside him, and somewhere through the throbbing in his head Tommy realized that the voice in his ear must be connected to the warm hands sliding down his chest." _Ziva grazes his skin with her nails, and one hand slips from his shoulder to just below his navel._ "'I have orders to wake you every two hours.'"_

Slender fingers follow the trail of dark hair leading beneath the band of his shorts, and Tony just barely manages to keep his voice from cracking. _"'I'm awake now,' he said, though the pounding behind his eyes kept them shut. It wasn't like he needed to see to know Lisa had slipped her fingers just under the waist of his boxers—"_

Ziva traces the raise of his hipbone with the pads of her fingers, following it down just short of where he'd kill for her to be touching, and he is _this close_ to throwing the book across the room, to hell with Tommy and Lisa. Tony's so frustrated he doesn't even bother to be disgusted that McLecher imagined the scene he is currently reading.

"You're not done yet, Tony."

"—_and as she pushed them past his hips he felt her weight shift atop his bed—"_

Ziva leans back far enough to pull her sweatshirt up over her head and shakes her hair forward, the ends of her curls dragging over his torso. The sensation makes him shiver and gooseflesh rises under his skin. His boxers lie forgotten on the floor.

_Dear God, Ziva…_

"—_and Tony seriously considered concussing himself more often."_

"_Tony_ considered it?" Ziva asks, smiling as he feels her mouth press the words against him, but she's settled herself between his thighs and by now there's very little Tony _wouldn't_ do to keep her there.


	4. Eyeblack

_I made love to black-eyed Susie..._

_-Ricky Skaggs_

* * *

"I don't even have a response for you right now."

Ziva shoots an acid-laced glare at DiNozzo through the eye that isn't bruised and tries to come up with one good reason why she shouldn't slap that smugly entertained grin off his face.

"Good. You are probably safer speechless."

"I mean, last time it took a strung-out Marine to one-up you like that, and you're telling me you got a shiner from-?"

"What part of 'you are safer speechless' did you not comprehend?" she snaps, ire rising as Tony just leans back into the couch and widens that Cheshire grin.

"Calm down, sweetcheeks," he says, heavily settling one hand on her back and popping orange tic-tacs into his mouth with the other. "You misjudged. It's not like anyone's going to think less of you for it."

His hand on the back of her neck isn't helping and Ziva bristles, in a rare mood as she shrugs the contact away. "Well,_ I_ think less of me for it!"

As much as she hates to accept it, Tony is not to be deterred, and only a few seconds pass before his hand snakes back to her neck and starts working his fingers in circles.

"So you leaned over too quick to re-do your shoelace and whacked yourself on the corner of the desk," he says, thumb pressing against her nape. (She will not enjoy the touching right now. Will _not_.) "At least now I know you're not a Cylon or something. Or a Predator. Though that last one I'm still not a hundred percent sure of—"

The are-you-kidding glare she shoots his way would be much more intimidating if it didn't hurt to move her right eyebrow, and Ziva wisely chooses not to let on that she's unsure what he means by "cylon" or "predator."

"It could've been worse, Zee. You could'a needed stitches. _Or_," Tony tries hard to untwist his lips out of a smile, and the struggle is hard not to notice. The smile appears to be winning. "It could be bruised _and_ swollen shut, and I could be making one-eyed pirate jokes."

The pads of his fingers still knead gentle patterns at the base of her neck. He'd loosened some of the knots in her muscles without her realizing it.

_Damn him. _

"Less talking, Tony," she says, and instead of the slap she'd entertained the thought of bestowing, Ziva sprawls herself gracelessly across his legs. It isn't something Tony had been expecting, but she trusts him to go with the flow and he does not disappoint.

He smoothes his hands down the length of her back. "C'mon, Ziva, I'd have thought my dulcet tones would soothe the savage—"

"Don't-!" Ziva pinches hard behind his knee and Tony traps the word _beast _behind his teeth, "…even go there." She smiles for the first time since they'd driven back to his apartment.

"Must you grin at my pain?" he asks, but busies his hands again and she doesn't mind so much being touched anymore. So many years with so many women have at least been good for one thing, and just for now Ziva approves that there is nothing Tony knows better than which of her buttons to press.

The massage hurts a little, but it's the kind of pain that feels like healing when he pushes on this knot or that one. He responds to the tightness in her shoulders with more pressure, and when her muscles fight him he fights back. "Christ, don't you ever relax?"

"I _am_ relaxed."

He uses his knuckles to work through a particularly nasty snarl of taut muscle, and Ziva tightens already shut eyes against the flare of pain. The bruises around her eye throb in protest. "Like hell you are."

"Tony—" His palms slide beneath her shirt, stroking the shallow indent of her spine once, twice. The massage appears to be over, but the way his fingers roam over the ridges of her scars feels like exploration, a reminder of things he already knows well. He traces her sides, urging her arms above her head and dimly Ziva feels heat spread through her like water seeping through paper. Tony lets go long enough to drape her discarded shirt over the back of his couch and then he's touching her again, one hand at the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades. She feels his breath before his mouth.

He dips his head and dry lips press a kiss just above the upper edge of her bra. Then another, teeth scraping against the fabric. With a little work, he even manages to get the clasps undone.

"Impressive."

"Took me awhile to learn that one."

Ziva smirks—it takes less effort than the scoff she'd considered, and her eye would probably thank her for the kindness later. "You always were a slow learner."

Tony smoothes her hair away from her neck, tests caramel skin with his teeth. "I've got a few more tricks where that came from, Dah-veed."

"And one of them is pressing against my stomach."

"How kind of you notice." His hand slides down to her ass, and the impatient part of her wishes the tightness in his jeans was more easily accessible to her own wandering touch. The rest is content to let Tony do most of the work.

"I'd rather notice it _somewhere else_."

"Give me a minute, Ziva," Tony kneads the heel of his hand against her flesh, and leans down to place a hot, sucking kiss in the middle of her back. "I'm slow at this, too."


	5. Piano

_My fingers sting_  
_Where I feel your fingers have been..._

_- "The Piano" - PJ Harvey_

* * *

Ziva David has very small hands.

Tony has studied them on many an occasion, short nails, calluses, and all. But at this moment their size is emphasized by the way her fingers dance across piano keys; Ziva is sitting behind the glossy black baby grand he's fairly sure is supposed to be for show, killing the last hour or so before they need to leave and pick up the witness. It's a pity, really, that they've got to leave New York so soon—it's a nice hotel, real nice, a few blocks from Central Park South. Not quite as opulent as the one in Paris had been, but you can't win them all, now, can you?

He leans against a column a couple of yards away from her, and doesn't feel the least bit guilty that he and Ziva had only utilized one of the two rooms NCIS reserved for them. Tony's just glad they're here on another collection detail rather than an undercover op—no surveillance is the best kind of surveillance.

He gives a weird little inward smile at the thought of what might've happened if the two of them had been sent undercover now, instead of…what was it, five years ago? Tony feels like an exhibitionist just thinking about it. Not the kind of kinky he's into, to say the least. Especially not with McVoyeur bugging everything and setting up video feeds.

So instead he turns his mind back to the piano.

Ziva's playing this sultry sort of thing, all deep and slow and languid, and he thinks it would sound really fantastic with some acoustic guitar layered over it in places. There's a line between her brows as she concentrates on her fingers reaching the right keys, but she makes it look easy—just like everything else she ever does.

She doesn't put much pressure on the keys; just enough to draw out the sound and then her hands are off plinking out notes somewhere else again. There's something sexy about how Ziva coaxes the piano to sound the way she wants. Reverence isn't quite the right word for it. It's…almost like a caress, how she strokes out sound and twists it into a melody Tony couldn't have come up with even if he knew how to play music.

It's not the only thing she's stroked sounds out of since they'd gotten here, and it vaguely dawns on him that Ziva touches the keys like she touches him; with the same intent. She definitely played all _his_ sweet spots and then some last night; she'd burst in after a long run in the park, sweaty and flushed, her hair falling in her eyes, and she'd looked so utterly fuckable he'd had to have her touching him everywhere as soon as was humanly possible. She'd been more than happy to oblige, only the noises her expert hands had drawn from himweren't quite so melodic as the sounds the piano makes under them.

"They have pianos in Israel?" Tony teases, and sits down at the bench next to her.

Ziva smiles the kind of half-smirk-thing that tends to make him go hot in certain places, looking at him out the corners of half-lidded eyes.

"Parents in other countries are just as capable of raising well-rounded children, DiNozzo," she says, gaze downturned once again to concentrate on what she's doing.

He likes watching her focused. Her eyes get this intense set to them, like whatever she's looking at at that very second is the only thing in the world worth her attention. In reality her Mossad-Ninja senses are probably radar-detecting every footstep into or out of the room, but her fixed gaze still makes him wonder what about the music draws her in enough to look like it dominates her awareness.

_Breaking that focus could be fun, too. _

"Oh yeah? When'd you learn this trick, in between 'Sharpshooting 101' and 'How to Survive in Mossad Without Really Trying'?" He hooks his thumb into her back pocket. Ziva doesn't bat an eye.

"Aunt Nettie, actually. After 'Stealth and Tracking for Dimmies.'"

Tony can't tell if she's baiting him or being serious. He settles on half-serious.

"Dummies."

"Same difference."

"Your posture's awful," he lies, spreading his fingers out against the small of her back and she shifts beneath his palm. He feels Ziva straighten her spine and Tony knows she's aware of the way it makes her breasts press against her shirt. He just _knows,_ and the smug smile she's wearing says she definitely knows he's staring.

And still she doesn't miss a note.

Screw the piano. He'd rather have her hands on _him_.

"Aren't they supposed to teach you to sit up straight when you play this thing?" he asks, and scoots himself up against her side just as Ziva reaches over him to play a lilting string of notes that don't seem to fit with the rest of the song. She's showing off now, pleased as punch that he hasn't gotten a rise out of her yet, and Tony is determined to wipe that satisfied little grin off her face. Especially because he's having a hard time ignoring her breasts and the rush of heat he gets every time she leans over him to reach for a certain key.

He starts with a hand on her knee. No response. What he really wants is to lean over and kiss her but he won't, because that would be too easy. And probably dangerous. So instead Tony slides his palm higher up her thigh, fingers running along her inseam, and Ziva pointedly ignores him. He feels a muscle spasm under his hand and smiles; she's feeling him and it's getting to her, at least a little, but she still refuses to give him the satisfaction of a game well-won. Not even a glance out of the corner of her eye.

And then it dawns on him that he could do just about anything he wants with that hand on her leg and no one would know. Ziva trusts him not to do anything exceedingly stupid, and he's certainly not dumb enough to take his life in his hands like that. And she's been playing along, hasn't she? And Tony's ninety-eight percent sure she won't make a scene in front of a lobbyful of people milling around.

He wonders what would happen if he ran a finger along the seam between her legs.


End file.
